


Speaking With Bodies and Blades

by Theri



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Angst?, Drabble, M/M, One Shot, Vaguely mentioned underage sex, mentioned sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theri/pseuds/Theri
Summary: Friend. There were other words to describe what they used to have between them, but friend was easiest to use. They spoke with their bodies and steel, as they always had.





	Speaking With Bodies and Blades

The two used to be very similar, yet as time passed, Olberic noticed how far apart they’d grown. Erhardt’s voice was tremulous, prone to blowing away, like footsteps in the desert sand. Meanwhile, Olberic’s was a deep baritone, steady and firm like an unmoving boulder. But even so, the hardened mercenary’s heart beat quick and willowy at the sight of his old friend.  _ Friend. _ There were other words to describe what they used to have between them, but friend was easiest to use. Most people didn’t understand the softness of Erhardt’s lips, or his sculpted jawline. At least, not coming from another man, they didn’t.

It was strange how you couldn’t help but remember all the good moments when something was over, rather than the bad ones. When Olberic thought of Erhardt--of Hornburg--the first memories that came to mind were of the tickle of the blond’s lips, and the twinkle in his green eyes as he laughed. Not of the blood that stained his friend’s blade. The blood of the king they’d both sworn an oath to. By the Flame, Erhardt was such a pretty liar. Their time together was just a falsehood, but nonetheless, it was beautiful.

Even when it was over, their respective journeys mirrored each other’s. Olberic had had a feeling, for those 18 years, that somewhere out there, Erhardt was just as empty as he was.  _ Did what we have mean nothing? _ he wondered frequently in Cobbleston. Only 34 years of age, and yet he felt so lost. So meaningless. What was the point of his blade when there was no one there to clash against it with enough skill to make him actually try?

When they’d first met, he would’ve never imagined this was how they’d end up. From the moment they connected gazes, he’d noticed how Erhardt’s eyes gleamed with fire. With an anger that smoldered, hungry for revenge. How careless he’d been to attribute it to the enemies of Hornburg. All he’d seen was that anger--that drive to spill blood.

Then, he started to see more as the seasons went by. A demure kindness that twinkled in the depths, revealed every once in a while over talk during nightly rations. Or the smoothness of his voice. For a boy who became a soldier at 14, Erhardt spoke well. Not with a noble’s polish, but certainly finer than the average farmer. It had a bit of a throaty growl to it, mixed with a gentleman’s purr. Halfway between pirate and high house duelist.

Olberic especially loved that voice as it moaned his name. Deep and sultry. Carnal. He could bring Erhardt to the edge, the swordsman barely keeping it together, lest he cry out and alert their comrades as to what was going on. No doubt they’d both be discharged, if not executed, if their little secret ever came to light. Olberic had always sworn his highest loyalty to Hornburg, and no other. Yet, when Erhardt was pressed up against him with those gooseberry-green eyes, that oath always shrank to the back of his mind. From the moment he was born, he knew what he had to do. Why he swung his blade. Until that golden-haired swordsman tore his resolve to shreds.

And when they met again, 18 years later, that emptiness gnawed at Olberic still. They’d both changed drastically, but some things were the same. Words were still not his strong suit. “Why did you betray Hornburg?”  _ Why did you betray me? _ “Did our friendship mean nothing?”  _ Did our love mean nothing?  _ He never asked the questions he wanted to; they always came out wrong, for some reason. So it was inevitable that they clashed blades to obtain the answers they sought. Erhardt may have had a pleasant voice and a smooth manner of speaking, but he was just as inept at talking things out as Olberic when it came down to it. They spoke with their bodies and steel, as they always had.

With each clang of metal, memories flashed through his mind.  _ Clang! _ A peal of laughter.  _ Clang! _ A stare that lingered too long.  _ Clang! _ The soothing sound of the blond’s heartbeat.  _ Clang!  _ Sweet nothings they whispered to each other, voices mixing in a low growl.  _ Clang!  _ The sickly sweet taste of the wine they’d drunk too much of.  _ Clang!  _ The feel of Erhardt’s slim yet calloused hands traveling where they shouldn’t be.  _ Clang!  _ “Erhardt…!” The gasp Olberic had let escape him as the blond taught him the sensation of being touched by a lover.

When the dust settled, there were no more words to be had. They had each let out their frustrations and sadness. The man named Werner. He needed to find him, and let things end once and for all. The 18-year belated conclusion of a tragedy in the making.

But in a way, Olberic had already found his conclusion. It dwelled in Erhardt’s footsteps, soft and practiced. Lithe. It dwelled in his smooth yet flickering voice--footsteps obscured by the desert sand. Even when it faded, it was burned into his memory forever. He had found it in Erhardt’s blade, how the steel quaked with passion despite how dry and vapid the area was around them. They may have had different people to protect, and different places where they were needed. But they were also a couple of old codgers at 35, who surely wouldn’t be missed if one were to disappear for a few days to take a little travel excursion. After all, the villagers at Cobbleston weren’t exactly the sharpest. Philip was the only one who noticed the sand that clung to Olberic’s body whenever he returned. But he didn’t say anything, because he was a smart boy who understood when a man’s business wasn’t his own.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about this piece. I really wanted to write Olberic/Erhardt, but I wasn't exactly sure how to go about it. In the end, this was what I arrived to, even if it's very short.


End file.
